


two cups salt

by Avonya



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst?, But also, Canon Divergence, Gen, Gertrude’s hungry okay, background office gossip, deaf Tim stoker, forcible taking of a statement, hard of hearing Tim stoker, heavily implied jontim, precanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avonya/pseuds/Avonya
Summary: The email came halfway through a conversation about what to do for dinner, workload permitting, though Tim insisted that as it was a Friday, workload permitted. It was from the archivist, Gertrude Robinson, and requested Jon’s immediate presence in the archive. Which, yikes.Rumor in research was that all of the archival assistants had “died in the line of duty.” Considering that it was an archive that was incredible nerve wracking. Rumor in artefact storage was that no, Gertrude still had an assistant, and what was his name? That goth guy; tall, pale, bad dye job? Of course, that rumor was refuted by those up in accounting: no one but Gertrude was on archive payroll.(Sometimes old statements don’t cut it. What’s an archivist supposed to do?)
Relationships: Tim Stoker & Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	two cups salt

**Author's Note:**

> hi all! The plot of this has been kind of kicking around in the back of my head for a while now and apparently seeing HoH Tim headcanons was all I needed to write it! I’ve done my best to respectfully write Tim as HoH but PLEASE let me know if I have messed up. 
> 
> Title doesn’t have a specific source this time other then like recipes, though that much salt feels more like a ‘oh shit I read that as salt instead of sugar’

The email came halfway through a conversation about what to do for dinner, workload permitting, though Tim insisted that as it was a Friday, workload permitted. The Magnus Institute research department, despite being a hub of activity, was mostly quiet, and so to preserve some level of secrecy Jon and Tim signed their conversation. 

‘Kickstop’s always nice,’ Tim signed, cutting off the gesture halfway through as one of the department heads bustled by with a stack full of paper in her hands and a pissed expression on their face. ‘Oh, Christ, what’s this for?’

‘Maybe there’s been an announcement?’ Jon guessed, his signs not quite as smooth as Tim’s, though maybe getting there. Tim had years on him, though— being born Deaf in one ear would do that. ‘Let me check.’

There was an announcement, actually, and reading through the lines of the strained professional politeness that the Institute exclusively gave official memos in showed that some unnamed researcher ( _ JEREMY _ ) had taken a wrong turn in artefact storage  _ (CAME TO WORK HIGH??)  _ and crashed through a table of cursed baby shoes. The email requested that any information on said cursed baby shoes be pulled up and given to artefact storage as the event had caused some measure of complications ( _ SPREAD THE BABY CURSE, GOD DAMN IT, NOT AGAIN) _ . 

There was another new email, though, sent only to Jon. He dutifully signed that yes, there was an announcement, before opening the email. 

“Oh,” he said, before he could stop himself. Tim looked up from his computer. 

“Mm? It was totally Jeremy, right?”

The other researcher at their little table of three snorted before quickly covering her mouth. As far as research partners went, Alicia wasn’t bad, though Tim told Jon that he was fairly sure she’d be quitting by the next month. 

“I know a girl in artefact storage,” she whispered, leaning into the center of their desks and closer to Tim, eyes out for the department heads. “According to Sasha James, it was  _ definitely  _ Jeremy.”

“Oh, Sasha!” Tim said, delighted, turning to Jon. “Jon, do you know Sasha?”

“No,” Jon said brusquely, quickly logging out of his computer. At Tim’s confused expression, he added, “I got an email from Gertrude Robinson, she said I needed to go down into the archives.”

“Oh,” Tim said, eyes widening. “Are you working on something for her?”

“No,” Jon didn’t quite hide the anxiety in his voice. The things people said about the archives…

Rumor in research was that all of the archival assistants had “died in the line of duty.” Considering that it was an  _ archive  _ that was incredible nerve wracking. Rumor in artefact storage was that no, Gertrude still had an assistant, and what was his name? That goth guy; tall, pale, bad dye job? Of course, that rumor was refuted by those up in accounting: no one but Gertrude was on archive payroll. 

“She probably just needs help with one of the new statements,” Alicia said breezily, already going back to whatever she was working on. The giant book in front of her suggested that it was tunnel gnomes, whatever those were. 

Tim’s eyes lingered, though, and after a quick glance at Alicia, he signed, ‘I could take my fifteen, walk you down.’

“It’s fine,” Jon said. Tim could hear him well enough, that was all. Nothing to do with him needing to lift his hands to sign, an action that would  _ definitely  _ show his trembling. “See you after… whatever this is.” 

Jon turned away before he could see Tim’s reaction. He still felt eyes on his back the entire walk down, down, down into the depths of the Institute. 

The day outside had been hot, hailing the coming sticky summer, but the archives were musty and cool. Much more comfortable than the research office Jon was stuffed in. 

Tim’s laughter would have filled the place nicely, Jon thought, hesitating just inside the main room. He could see the door to Gertrude’s office, simply labeled ARCHIVIST despite her having worked for the Institute for nearly fifty years. The door was closed, though Jon could head the rise and fall of conversation behind it. 

There were four desks in the main room, and like insects in amber each was scattered with the belongings of whoever must have owned it before, each labeled with a dust covered plastic name tag. Eric, Emma, Michael, Sarah— who were they? Why had no one cleaned up for them after they had gone? 

They were long gone. The desks didn’t matter. Jon didn’t believe in ghosts and only believed in the curses that had concrete things attached to them, wretched books and so on. The stillness and quiet of the front room of the archives was nothing. It didn’t matter. 

Jon crossed the room and knocked on the door, immediately cutting off the conversation behind it. 

“Come in,” called the voice of an elderly woman. 

The door swung outward with a sharp tug from Jon and a groan from the hinges. Inside was Gertrude’s office, free from the dust and scattered paper of the rest of the archive. 

Gertrude herself sat behind the large dark wooden desk, a frown on her ancient face. She was wrapped in a large pink cardigan that clashed with the “absolutely don’t fuck with me” vibes that she was putting out. 

Across her desk, lounging in the only remaining chair, was a man that must have been artefact storage’s rumor. His black hair was just as poorly dyed as expected, though his paleness looked more ill than Jon had imagined. 

Both Gertrude and the man regarded Jon with thoughtful, analytical, eyes. 

“Hello?” Jon said, the greeting coming out much more questioning than he would have liked. “I’m Jonathan Sims, you requested my presence?”

“I did,” she said, and her voice was stronger than Jon had expected. “Gerard, would you mind?”

The man, Gerard, turned his eyes back on Gertrude. With raised eyebrows he cast some kind of question, some kind of vague dissent. Gertrude gave him a Look right back and he sighed and stood. 

“Nice meeting you, Jonathan,” Gerard said, directly addressing Jon. He was tall when he stood, and covered in skin that was clearly recovering from something strange. 

Jon recalled the tales of the unfortunate ends of all of the archival assistants. He barely remembered to say goodbye and step out of Gerard’s way. 

Gerard stopped in the doorframe, though, didn’t leave right away. “If you’re doing what I think you are,” he said, addressing Gertrude with something of a warning in his tone. 

“Then I’ll be ready to go in about half an hour,” she replied, voice firm. 

Gerard seemed to shrink, slightly, under her unwavering face, and he sighed and nodded. “Sorry in advance,” he told Jon, before leaving, shutting the door behind him. 

“What?” Jon asked, craning his head to try to somehow see through the old wood, to find out what the  _ fuck  _ that meant. 

“Just Gerard making a joke. Take a seat, Jonathan, there’s something I need of you.”

Jon took the only seat in the room, a straight backed chair, hard wood, still warm from Gerard. “What is it?” 

Gertrude sighed, and didn’t say anything for a moment. That close, Jon could see a few cracks in her facade, something like exhaustion leaking through. She was shaking, slightly, and Jon was suddenly alarmed. How old was she again? If she had been working for the Institute for nearly fifty years then she was just about seventy, right? How has she not retired—

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his childhood encounter with a book formerly belonging to Jurgen Leitner.”

The air cracked and popped and  _ something  _ surged in Jon’s throat, tearing and shredding and soft and sweet, and the alarm that ran through Jon turned to fear, pure fear. Nobody knew about Mr. Spider, he hadn’t told anyone, he didn’t  _ want  _ to tell anyone!

“Statement begins,” Gertrude said, and. Well. His statement began. 

It was like living it again. The words spilled from Jon’s lips like something tangible, something violent, something that would fill the room with sick dread. There was pressure from the bottom of his throat, rising with every word, easing off slightly with every sentence. He could not stop talking. 

He wanted to, though. He wanted to not have to see it again, see the book, the words, the  _ legs— _

Spinning and twisting and clawing and screaming and watching. There was something watching him, someone’s eyes burning into the back of his head even as Gertrude cut open his stomach and tore the insides out, even as—

“Statement ends,” Gertrude said, and her tremble was gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> none of my tma fics can logically fit in the same universe but even so Kickstop is apparently the connection as I can only make up one restaurant name
> 
> what’d you think? Comment! I read all of them and obsess over many! I’m on tumblr, also as avonya!


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